


Better Off Dead

by navaan



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Character Study, Family, Ficlet, Gen, Introspection, Missing Scene, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/pseuds/navaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred knows he'll never see Bruce Wayne again, but he couldn't be happier about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Off Dead

Alfred had always enjoyed his little holidays in Italy. He loved Florence, loved it for the contrast of busy live in the streets and the tranquility of sitting in a cafe near the river.

For years he'd come hear still _hoping_.

Now all hope was dead. Back home he'd buried the boy he'd sworn to protect. But then he looked up from his Fernet Branca, saw a young couple sitting a few tables away, and was briefly reminded of the happy fantasy he'd engaged in for all these years of hoping in vain that Bruce Wayne would find a life for himself far away from Gotham. Far away from the painful memories and thoughts of revenge.

And then he realized. This was not a happy fantasy.

There he was. Bruce Wayne. Alive and smiling mildly, meeting his eyes and nodding his head in a very slight and nearly imperceptible way. Not saying anything. Like he'd always wanted it to happen. Just letting him know he wasn't dead after all.

Letting him know that he actually had found a life outside of Gotham.

When Alfred got up to leave he smiled. Because this was their final good-bye. Bruce Wayne was dead, but the boy he'd brought up had finally found a life away from pain and misery.

He knew this was the last he'd ever see of him.

And it made him happy.

* * *

The envelope arrived in spring nearly two years later, addressed to Alfred Pennyworth. He frowned at it, because not many people knew of his new home in London.

There was no return address. Inside was no letter. Just a photograph.

A baby lying in a crib, asleep, hands curled up beside the little head, full of dark, feathery hair.

A woman's curly handwriting he'd never seen before on the back informed him: _Her name is Helena._

He smiled, staring at the photograph, memorizing the little face, before carefully putting it back into the envelop and slipping it into his breast pocket.

Life it seemed had done wonders for the dead.


End file.
